Unhidden Humanities
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: After Sherlock's Return, John notices a change in Sherlock. The detective's a little more calm, a little less rude, and just a little more human. Rated M for tons of angst, language, character death, suicide, and obvious trigger warnings... Involves Sherlock&John, but also features Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and 'Mary'. Post-Reichenbach, spoilers.


**Unhidden Humanities**

"Why didn't you just stay dead, Freak?"

The words are more cruel that John reckons that they ever have been. Or maybe his entire view on everything has just changed, but it doesn't change the way that John's heart skips a beat when Donovan says those words.

John feels Sherlock's head snap up from his mobile.

Once upon a time, this kind of situation would go by unnoticed. But now, it's different.

Sherlock had returned to John's life not so long ago. John had been floored and angry but, at the same time, _so_ overwhelmingly happy that it had left him in tears.

John knows that he didn't imagine Sherlock's body trembling when they hugged, that day that Sherlock returned. John knows that he didn't imagine Sherlock's eyes glistening. John knows that he didn't imagine the pure, unbridled _emotion_ in his gaze and clouting his throat and John knows that Sherlock is different than from before the Fall.

Sherlock is a little more emotional, a little less distant, and a little more vulnerable.

John knows that that scares Sherlock, being vulnerable.

So, when Donovan spews those words and John knows rather than sees that Sherlock has looked up, that his body has stiffened, John just grips Sherlock's shoulders and turns him away.

"Let's go," John murmurs. "Let's just go."

It is a mark of the changed Sherlock that Sherlock does not argue. He seems a bit shocked, to be honest, although John isn't. Donovan will never change. Just like the people who still believed that Sherlock was (is) a fraud. Some people never changed.

Sherlock was not one of those people.

"Don't listen to her," John remarks, once he closes the cab door on Lestrade shouting at Donovan.

"I never do," Sherlock replies, but John knows it bothers him more than he would ever admit.

* * *

"Hm..."

"What?" John glances up from his drink, looking towards Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes are locked on the crowd, his fingers tapping absently on the bar. "I think _she_ would be a good candidate for dating, yes?" Sherlock asks, pointing out one brunette in the crowd.

Despite the fact that the woman is gorgeous, John nearly chokes on his drink. When Sherlock looks back at him, John is scrubbing the back of his hand against his mouth and looking at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"What?" Sherlock intones, frowning slightly. "Am I wrong?"

"You- I-" John takes a breath. "Are you really checking her out? Are you really... _looking_?"

"I always look."

"You never see," John retorts. "I'm surprised you think she's nice... She seems like my type."

Sherlock blinks at him, looking to the woman and back to John. "Well, yes, that's the point," he says. "For _you_, John, not for _me_."

"Oh!" John blinks. "Oh... I thought..."

"Why would I be... 'checking her out'?" Sherlock hooks his fingers into quotes as he speaks. "I have no interest... Although, if I were to date someone, as far as looks and lives go, she wouldn't be bad."

"... Okay, tell me."

"Thirty-six. Recently divorced. Has one kid, roughly around the age of three. Visiting from out of town, staying with extended family, most likely an aunt. Not actively searching for a love interest, but wouldn't be against the idea if a good man walked up to her." Sherlock looks away from the crowd, looking back at John. "Walk up to her."

"Well, if you say so." John drains the last of his drink and stands.

* * *

"He doesn't know anything about the solar system."

"John..."

"And he's rather daft when it comes to medicine, too, which makes it a pain to live with him sometimes... He thought chicken pox was something that chickens could contract."

John watches Sherlock shift uncomfortably.

The doctor knows that he's out of line with what he's saying, but he continues talking for two reasons. One, he's partially drunk. Two, he loves the reaction that he can get from Sherlock nowadays.

"You'd think, for all of his intelligence, he would know that the earth goes around the sun."

People laugh and chuckle at this, even Mary at John's side. John wraps an arm around her and holds her close.

"He doesn't understand emotions and he barely understands the norms of society, and _I_ have to remind him to eat three meals a day and actually go to bed..." John smiles warmly, meeting Sherlock's gaze as the detective side glances at him.

"But he is the best friend I could ever ask for," John says, raising his glass to Sherlock slightly. "So, groan at my sappiness, to Sherlock. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him, and I say that from the bottom of my heart."

John smiles as the rest of the wedding reception echoes the toast and drinks to Sherlock and his health.

Sherlock is sitting next to him, looking very smart and uncomfortable in a sleek, black tuxedo. He's wearing a red tie and the colour spread across his cheeks matches it perfectly.

John knows that some of what he said, Sherlock would be annoyed about. John doesn't mind. His wedding reception, well, what's left of it, anyway, was full of friends. Plus, John loves to make Sherlock embarrassed when he can, which is, admittingly, not often enough to make up for the past.

But, toasting to him to a crowd of watching people, at _John's_ wedding reception... It's not such a bad start.

* * *

After losing Sherlock, this is the most painful part of John's life.

He stares at the casket with tears in his eyes.

At the age of forty-two, John never thought that he'd be watching his own wife be buried.

He closes his eyes and lets his mind drift to some other, much warmer, place.

He is studiously aware of Sherlock's arm brushing against his throughout the funeral.

After the funeral, and after the burial, John lets Sherlock coax him back to Baker Street. John doesn't know why. There's so much to do now. There's so much, still, that he has to tackle...

John holds it together under Sherlock's watchful stare.

Only for so long.

John works his way through everything that needs to be finished: final costs with the funeral home, picking out a tombstone and all such things. He, while he had let Sherlock demand he spend the night the day of the burial, avoids 221 and Sherlock altogether. It isn't as if he doesn't want to talk to his best friend. He just can't.

It takes a few weeks for his life to really fall back into a semblance of what could be called normal. It takes a few weeks for his life to catch up with him.

He lets himself into 221 with shaking hands. He still has the key. Sherlock had never asked for it back.

He gets as far as crossing the sitting room threshold before he breaks down in tears.

Sherlock is off the couch in the next moment and John feels the detective's arm slip around him, pulling him close. John nestles his face against Sherlock's shoulder and just sobs.

His shoulders shake and he can barely breathe and his face and Sherlock's dressing gown are soaked with tears, but the detective's grip never wavers.

Sherlock just holds John close and never says a word past _I'm sorry_, even though he is the last person on earth who needs to apologize to John.

* * *

John realizes that he should have been expecting it, but when the nursing home calls one morning to say that Mrs. Hudson passed away sometime during the night, John is floored.

His hands shake and he can barely breathe a response to the woman who's called.

He takes a moment, collects himself, before walking into Sherlock's bedroom.

John doesn't knock, doesn't announce himself, just walks over to Sherlock's sleeping form and shakes his shoulder.

"What?" Sherlock grumbles, fumbling for the lamp and flicking it on. He peers at John, squinting in the light. He must see something in John's face, because he pushes the blankets off abruptly and sits up. "What is it?"

"Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock looks at him for a moment, before the quiet _oh_ escapes his lips. John doesn't have to say anything else and he is infinitely glad. He sinks onto the edge of Sherlock's bed, next to the detective.

It's both of their own separate burdens to bear, but somehow, together seems a better way to face it.

They sit in silence until the first rays of light peek through the curtains.

* * *

"John."

From the tone of voice, John immediately knows that Sherlock's wrong. He drops the newspaper and looks towards Sherlock. "What? What's happened?"

Sherlock's face is emotionless, but his eyes are far from. There's a flurry of emotion dancing in those gray orbs. He opens his mouth, stops, and closes it again.

Sherlock Holmes is lost for words.

John crosses the room and guides Sherlock to the sofa. "Sherlock, tell me what's happening."

"It... It's Mycroft," Sherlock mumbles, almost if he's in a stupour.

"What? What about Mycroft?"

Sherlock bites his lip, seeming to toy with the words before he says them. John can see the cogs working in Sherlock's mind, even if there is no sound, and he wonders what terrible event has happened with his best friend's brother.

"Sherlock."

"He's..." Sherlock takes a deep breath. "He's in the hospital."

"What? Why?"

John waits patiently for Sherlock to respond. He doesn't, at least not in the way that John expects him to.

Sherlock, instead, blinks and his eyes are suddenly filled with tears. He takes another breath, but it shakes and stutters and falters.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock closes his eyes and presses his lips together. John can see that Sherlock's trying his hardest to hold back emotion. John can see that Sherlock's fighting a losing battle.

John is just about to question again, or say something comforting, when Sherlock speaks again.

"He's dying."

The detective's lips barely move and he doesn't open his eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock..." John wraps his arms around Sherlock and Sherlock doesn't lean away from the hug. John feels the detective's body go limp in his arms, feels and hears him sigh a terrific sigh, feels Sherlock's uneven breathing.

As much as Sherlock said he hated his brother, John knows that that isn't true. It has taken this, true, but Sherlock doesn't hate him as much as he says.

"It's okay..." John murmurs, not because it is, but because it will be.

"Don't try to placate me with foolish drivel..." Sherlock mutters, sniffing heartily.

John nearly laughs. "That's what I do best, Sherlock."

Sherlock laughs, breathlessly, in response.

* * *

"We're getting old," John murmurs.

"... Not me," Sherlock replies.

"Yeah, you are. Your hair's turning silver."

"Well, your hair's been silver," Sherlock retorted.

"Ouch," John joked, forking a piece of bacon.

"... We're not that old," Sherlock mumbles after a stretch of silence.

John looks up from the Daily Mail. "Does it really bother you?"

Sherlock hesitates a second too long before saying _no_.

"It does bother you," John says, somewhat astonished. He lays down the newspaper. "Why? You're the most analytic being I know; how does getting old bother you?"

"It just... does." Sherlock chases a piece of sausage with his fork, not looking up.

"Upset that you actually age like the rest of us?" John says, his tone teasing.

"No!" Sherlock replies immediately, looking annoyed as he glances up. His eyebrows are drawn together. "It's not that."

John frowns. "What's wrong with you?"

Sherlock returns to his breakfast.

"Sherlock?"

John doesn't get a response, so, disgruntled, he immerses himself back in his newspaper.

"... Everything just goes on without you..." Sherlock mumbles.

John glances at him. "What?"

"When you die..."

"Well, yeah," John says bluntly. "Not many people care." One thing that he has picked up throughout the years is Sherlock's lack of tact. Of course, John still cares what people think and he always will- except on the fact that people think he's gay; he doesn't even bother to waste time correcting them nowadays- but he talks bluntly when he speaks to Sherlock.

"And even less for me," Sherlock says. "But..."

"But what?"

Sherlock doesn't reply again.

"Sherlock."

"Look, I already died once; I'm not keen to do it again."

John realizes, with a jolt, that Sherlock never really let on how much the Fall must have bothered him.

"Erm... Sherlock..." John thinks of all the blunt, analytical, tactless, _honest_ things to say. He doesn't say any of them. "I said we were getting old; I didn't say we _were_ old. We're just in our prime. Don't rush it."

Sherlock glances up and offers a hesitant smile. "Yes... Yes, we are, aren't we?"

"Damn right," John says, picking up another piece of bacon.

Sherlock smiles and continues his breakfast.

* * *

"Now you can say I'm old..."

"... John..."

John had never expected a long life. When he had signed up for the military, he barely expected to live to see the next day, let alone the age of thirty. But he had. When he started running through traffic with Sherlock, it was the same, except it became he didn't expect to live to fifty.

And when he lived to fifty and they were still solving cases, it was like a miracle. It was just as exciting as the first case.

But, all good things...

He's gracious that he's lived to the age of sixty-two.

Sherlock's a whopping fifty-nine and he still doesn't look a day over forty. John's jealous. He knows it's partly in the fact that Sherlock colours his hair- he had picked up the habit ever since they talked about age for the first time- but he's still jealous. Sherlock's eyes are still alight with the thrill of the chase, the exhilaration of a good case... Except now, they're clouded with tears that John simply can't understand.

"Why are you so upset, Sherlock...? You had to know that you'd kill me one day..." John jokes, trying to prop himself up. He gasps quietly at the pain he feels and Sherlock is immediately there, helping him.

"Stop moving."

"Oh, piss off..." John mutters, and settles against the pillows the way he wants to. Hospital be damned, he wants to be comfortable.

Sherlock seems to remember those words, from their very first case, because his hands freeze on smoothing out the IV wire.

There's an odd sound and Sherlock collapses into the chair by John's bedside, burying his face into his hands. It takes John a moment to realize that Sherlock is crying. Honest to goodness sobbing.

"Sherlock..." John starts painfully. He _has_ seen this coming and he _has_ dreaded the moment. It's a testament to Sherlock's will power that it takes until now for the detective to crumble entirely. "Sherlock-"

"You cannot leave me, John!" Sherlock explodes, his face streaked with tears and his eyes glittering with grief. "You cannot leave me in this world full of idiots!"

John smiles weakly. "Oh, I thought you learned to be a little nicer..."

Sherlock's anger crumbles. "John... John, please."

"No matter how many times you say that, it won't change this..."

"'Please' is the magic word! That's what you always told me! You _always_ told me that, John!" Sherlock's voice is wavering all over the place, high and then low, emotion sticking in his throat and running down his face.

"'Please' doesn't work against death..." John says softly.

Sherlock's hand clenches into a fist and he looks angry all over again. Anger is the go-to for Sherlock's emotions. Sherlock tries to turn tears into anger, but he can't seem to grasp it this time, because not ten seconds later, he throws himself back into the chair and hides his face again.

John painstakingly reaches over and rests his hand on top of Sherlock's black curls as the detective sobs.

John knows without a doubt that the sound will haunt him in the grave.

"I'm sorry..." he whispers. "I'm so sorry..." He doesn't know why he's apologizing. Apologizing for being old and being sick and dying. Apologizing for causing Sherlock so much unrestrained pain.

Sherlock's sobbing renews again, but the detective reaches up to John's hand, sandwiching it between both of his.

John finds the motion comforting.

He smiles and intertwines his fingers with Sherlock's.

* * *

Sherlock stares at John's tombstone.

It is the most painful thing that Sherlock has ever seen.

John had died with their hands entwined. Sherlock liked to think that the ever-tolerate doctor was happy, because there had been a small smile on his lips as his final breath left.

Sherlock had never felt properly happy since he had lost John. It was the strangest thing, for being a man who didn't have emotions or didn't care about people to feel so _empty_ after John had died. Sherlock would pick up his mobile and text John with a case detail or something for an experiment (both of which had become sparing in his old age) before he would receive a _Failure to send_ message and remember that fateful day in the hospital.

Tears would start anew and Sherlock hated how much he cried over his lost flat mate.

Still, Sherlock could be working on a case and he would remember fondly a laugh or smile that he and John shared, and Sherlock would smile at the memory. He could hear John's condescending remarks and see his energetic smile, and Sherlock would be content to remember.

He could be at peace with it, but he was never _properly_ happy.

Until now.

Sherlock stares at John's tombstone.

It's painful... but it's welcoming.

_Are you a bloody idiot?!_

would be what John would say right now. Sherlock can imagine his voice. It's so close, but still a distant echo...

Sherlock closes his eyes and pictures the memory of John that is embedded in his mind.

_You're an idiot!_

Sherlock smiles and opens his eyes. It is increasingly difficult to do so.

His legs start to shake. He willingly sinks to the ground, leaning back against John's tombstone as he begins to speak.

"I know you think I'm an idiot. Save the sentiment. I'm eighty-three and I can do what I want." Sherlock shifts his position uncomfortably. John's tombstone isn't comfortable. "Say what you like, but my story's finished."

Sherlock closes his eyes again.

When he opens them again, someone's crouched over him, frantically speaking although Sherlock cannot hear the words. They're muffled, in a distance, but he does catch some of them.

"- idiot! Why would you do this?"

Sherlock smiles faintly.

"- sodding oxycodone overdose, I mean, where the fuck did you-"

The words are becoming clearer. The voice, Sherlock recognizes.

"You're an idiot!"

Sherlock is aware that someone is crouched in front of him, although the grass and trees and tombstones and birds and bugs seemed to have vanished.

"... An intelligent idiot, mind you," Sherlock murmurs as he opens his eyes. "Good to see you... John."

John smiles back at him.

* * *

**If it's an consolation, I never intended this to be so angst-ridden. I was going for sad and funny and lighthearted and comforting and... Lol, look at all the angst. Sorry for those who follow me; this is different than what I usually write.**

**Points of interest:  
a) For those who never read the original, John gets married to Mary after Sherlock's Fall, but she has passed away by the time that Sherlock returns. So, that's the reason for the sudden jump from marriage to death.  
b) I didn't include Harry's death, because she's not a prominent character in the programme asides from the fact that her name is mentioned.  
c) I didn't include Molly's death. At the end of the story, it's likely that she would still be alive, too, since I picture her younger than Sherlock, so there you go.  
d) I didn't include Greg's death. Truthfully, I forgot, and I decided that more angst would just be... ridiculous.**

**Favourites and reviews would be appreciated. Thank you!**


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